The Maid of Fairbourne Hall

by Julie Klassen

Nathaniel was reminded of Lewis’s spend-all ways. “Go on.”

  “Marcus Benton is Sterling’s nephew and apparent heir—assuming Sterling’s marriage to the forty-something Macy widow results in no offspring.” He opened the leather cover and consulted his notes. “Marcus is three and twenty years of age and is the son of Sterling Benton’s younger brother—a law clerk—who resides in Greenwich. Apparently Sterling sponsored his nephew through Oxford, where he read the law. Marcus has no profession at present and lives the life of a gentleman supported by his uncle’s generosity.”

  “Generosity that may be coming to an end.”

  Hudson nodded. “So it seems. Marcus has lately come to reside with his uncle and new wife in Mayfair. The wife has three children, but the eldest daughter had been the only one residing at Berkeley Square regularly. Except at school vacations, Caroline Macy boards at a girls’ seminary and Gilbert Macy is at Eton.”

  Hudson hesitated. “I know you did not ask me to investigate the missing Margaret Macy, but I did learn something during my inquiries that bears on the situation.”

  Nathaniel steeled himself, fearing he might hear something unsavory about Miss Macy’s conduct.

  “Go on.”

  “Apparently, she will come into a good deal of money from a great-aunt who left her fortune in a trust, which is set to mature at Miss Macy’s twenty-fifth birthday on . . .” Again Hudson consulted his notes.

  “November the twenty-ninth,” Nathaniel murmured, lost in thought. He became aware of the high arch of Hudson’s eyebrows but ignored his expectant expression.

  “Might explain why an eligible nephew has come to stay,” Hudson said.

  Nathaniel screwed up his face in thought. “I wonder why this inheritance has been such a secret before now. I never heard it mentioned before—by her or the gossipmongers.”

  “Perhaps she hoped to avoid—what is the term?—fortune hunters. Not that I include you in that lot, sir.”

  “Thank you,” he said dryly. “Does she even know of the trust, do you think?”

  “I did not gather it was unknown by her, but rather that she and her parents made a point of keeping it secret from society at large.”

  “I wonder if Benton knew before he married into the family.”

  Hudson coughed. “Do you mind a little hearsay along with the facts?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “I gather there was quite a row in the Benton house when Sterling learned the details of the trust. From the tenor of the argument, it seemed evident that he thought his wife was the one inheriting the money.”

  Nathaniel stared at his steward, incredulous. “How on earth did you learn the details of an argument between man and wife in their own home?”

  “My dear Nathaniel”—Hudson gave him a tolerant smile, reverting to Christian names as they had used in Barbados—“if one wishes to learn what really goes on in a house, one need only sweet-talk the right housemaid.”

  Sweet-talk the right housemaid . . . Nathaniel mused. He wondered if he ought to give it a try. And he had just the right housemaid in mind.

  Despite his intentions, Nathaniel didn’t manage to see Margaret all day.

  That evening, he and Helen had just sat down to dinner when the second footman opened the dining room door and announced their brother. Lewis strode unceremoniously past the young man, and flopped into a chair.

  “Lewis,” Nathaniel said. “We did not expect you back so soon.”

  “Not that we aren’t glad to see you,” Helen added quickly.

  “Hello, old girl. You are looking well, I must say.”

  Helen self-consciously touched her curled and styled hair. “Thank you.”

  Nathaniel gestured to the under butler. “Another place setting, Arnold.”

  “Right away, sir.” Arnold signaled to the first footman, who languidly turned to do his bidding. Arnold, meanwhile, set several glasses before Lewis and poured wine.

  Lewis took a long drink, then said, “I had to come and tell you the news.”

  “Oh?”

  “I saw Sterling Benton in town. You remember him—married the Macy widow?”

  Nathaniel felt Helen’s quick look but kept his focus on Lewis. “Yes, what of him?”

  “I spent a most diverting evening at White’s, I can tell you. I won several guineas off an obliging solicitor-friend of mine. Well, not friend exactly, but a useful acquaintance.”

  Nathaniel frowned at the thought of Lewis gambling away family money—money needed for the estate, but he bit back a reprimand. “I thought you were going to tell us something about Benton?”

  “I’m getting to that. Be patient.” Lewis took another drink and gestured for a refill. “I was in a generous mood, having won for once, so I bought this solicitor-friend several rounds. Don’t scold—a wise investment, as it turns out.”

  Nathaniel felt his jaw tighten. “How is that?”

  “Well, he was well in his cups when Sterling Benton comes in, puffed up and slicked down as usual, that pup of a nephew at his heels.”

  Lewis took a long swallow of burgundy. “My friend takes one look at the haughty pair of them, then leans near and tells me he has a few ideas about why the Macy girl went missing.”

  Lewis had Nathaniel’s full attention at last.

  His brother’s eyes glinted. “He hinted that Miss Macy has quite a tidy fortune coming to her on her next birthday. She’s to be quite the little heiress.”

  Helen’s eyebrows rose. “Really? I had no idea.”

  “Nor I,” Lewis said, turning to him. “Did you know?”

  Nathaniel hedged, “She never said a word to me.”

  So, Nathaniel thought, the once-secret inheritance is becoming generally known. He supposed Margaret’s disappearance had loosened the tongues of the few who knew about it, whoever they were.

  Lewis returned to his tale. “At all events, I called Sterling Benton over, ignoring the sharp kicks my companion delivered under the table, and asked after Miss Macy. Benton feigned such fatherly concern, but I could tell it was balderdash. So I told him he need not worry about her.”

  Helen’s brow furrowed. “What? But how . . . ?”

  Lewis grinned. “I believe I may have hinted that I knew where she was . . . and planned to elope with her or some such. I don’t remember exactly, for I had kept pace with that solicitor in all those drinks, sorry to say.”

  “Lewisss . . .” Helen scolded.

  Lewis waved away the lecture before she could begin. “I’d wager he doesn’t care a whit about the girl, just wants to keep the money in the family. Stab me, I’m half tempted to find the chit and marry her myself. I wouldn’t have to live on the meager allowance Nate wants to leash me to—”

  “Don’t.” Nathaniel bit out the single syllable.

  Lewis regarded him, one brow raised. “Why not? Want a second shot at her yourself, do you?”

  Helen laid a hand on Nathaniel’s forearm. Had she not been there, Nathaniel knew he would probably have lost control and punched his brother again.

  Instead he gritted his teeth and warned, “Don’t trifle with Sterling Benton, Lewis. The man is financially desperate. Far more so than we are. There’s no telling what he might do if he thinks you stand between him and a fortune.”

  Early the next morning, Margaret began her duties in the drawing room, glad it was Fiona’s day to carry the water and slops. As she opened the shutters, she thought back to Nathaniel Upchurch’s kind attention when she’d fallen from the cart, and to their conversation on the moonlit balcony. His vow to defend her should any man mistreat her. His intense, earnest eyes had captured hers, and she had felt powerless to look away . . . to breathe. Tears had come from nowhere, burning her throat and filling her eyes. Oh, to have a man like Nathaniel Upchurch protect her. Love her.

  Click. Somewhere nearby, a door latch opened. That was odd.

  Pulse accelerating, she tiptoed to the threshold of the adjoining conservatory and peered around the doorja
mb. By dawn’s light seeping through the many panes of glass, she saw a figure—a man with his back to her—gingerly close the terrace door behind him. That door should have been locked. The man turned and crept across the room. For a rash second, she feared it was that pirate Nathaniel had mentioned. But then she recognized the man’s profile. It was Lewis, coming in at dawn, his cravat untied and in need of a shave. He had obviously been out all night again. She wondered with whom.

  He pulled up short at seeing her in the doorway but only lifted a finger to his lips and continued past her without a second glance. Apparently too tired—or sated—to bother flirting with her.

  Margaret felt a dull stab of disappointment. Disappointment at his behavior, not at his disinterest in her. She had given up all thought of Lewis Upchurch, at least romantically. She hoped the poor girl, whoever she was, knew what she was doing.

  Margaret sighed and returned to her work. The carpets were not going to brush themselves.

  The masquerade . . . became the entertainment

  of the century par excellence, not just with the upper

  classes but much lower down the social scale.

  —Giles Waterfield and Anne French, Below Stairs

  Chapter 23

  Around midday, Nathaniel read the staid Times before turning to the livelier of the London newspapers, the Morning Post. He skimmed quickly through the social columns, the who had been seen with whom, the engagements, births, and scandals. Suddenly he stopped, heart lurching painfully against his breastbone. His gaze flew back to the top of the column, and he read the lines again, temples pounding with each word.

  Young woman found drowned in the Thames. The body has not yet been officially identified, pending coroner inquisition and family notification, but an anonymous source reports that authorities speculate the deceased might be 24-year-old Margaret Macy of Berkeley Square, Mayfair, who has been missing since . . .

  What in the world? Was Margaret not somewhere in his house at that very moment? He searched his memory. When had he last seen her? Come to think of it, he had not seen her that morning. Nor had he found her on the balcony last night as he’d hoped. Had he seen her yesterday? He scoured his brain. Yesterday had been quite busy—a review of the account books with Lewis, a tedious hour with the under butler as he reported in minute detail on the inventory of the cellar, and a meeting with the council at town hall. But he believed he had seen Margaret the day before yesterday. Surely she did not have time to return to London and drown? This was mere speculation, surely. Irresponsible reporting. That was all.

  He threw down the paper and rose, knowing he would have no peace until he made certain. Where would she be this time of day? In the past, he’d had no knowledge of what his mostly invisible maids did when. But since recognizing “Nora,” he had found himself keenly aware of her movements, where he might catch a glimpse of her during her daily rounds. He consulted his pocket watch and winced in thought, trying to recall where she would be at this time. Belowstairs, he believed. He did not like to intrude into the servants’ domain, but he could not wait.

  From the library, he walked across the hall past the main staircase, then slipped through the servery and trotted down the basement stairs. Passing the butler’s pantry, he turned and followed the dim passage past the kitchen and stillroom, neck craning for any glimpse of her as he went. It was quiet belowstairs. The kitchen was empty. Where on earth was everyone? He pushed open the door to the servants’ hall, door banging off the wall like gunshot, startling the seated occupants within. Heads jerked around the table, and many pairs of wide eyes darted up at him. Ah, the servants’ dinner time—he had forgotten it was so early. His eyes raked over the faces gaping at him and snagged on a certain pair of pale blue eyes, as startled as the rest. He resisted the urge to go to her. Take her hand. Feel her pulse. Relief swept over him. He realized he had thrown a hand over his chest and was clutching at his ragged heart.

  Hudson rose, as did Arnold.

  “Is everything all right, sir?” Hudson asked in concern.

  Nathaniel held out a placating palm. “Sit. Please. I am sorry to disturb your dinner.”

  From the foot of the table, Mrs. Budgeon asked, “Is there something you needed, sir?”

  He inhaled deeply, realizing he was out of breath. He laid his eyes on Margaret once more, satisfying himself.

  “No, em, never mind. Everything is fine.”

  He formed an awkward smile, gestured for them to continue, and backed from the room, closing the door behind him. He was embarrassed, but relieved. Everything is fine, he repeated to himself. Margaret is fine.

  He wondered who the anonymous source had been and if the report was really pure conjecture. Or had someone a motive for wanting Margaret Macy declared dead?

  ———

  Nathaniel knew Lewis was somewhere about the place but decided not to seek him out. Instead, he went upstairs and knocked on Helen’s door. He was nearly relieved when she did not answer. He didn’t trust his ability to appear disinterested should he show her the news in person. What would he say? “The Morning Post reports that Miss Macy’s body may have been found—drowned in the Thames. Poor creature. Can you imagine?”

  Besides, he had the sneaking suspicion his sister knew very well who Nora was—perhaps had known long before he did.

  He settled for circling the column of type with a stroke of blue ink and leaving the newspaper on the writing desk in her room. Closing the door behind him, he wondered where she was. During the early days of his return, Helen had rarely ventured farther than the sitting room, except for meals and Sunday services. But since the servants’ ball, she had begun walking out-of-doors and involving herself in church charity work, and had even accepted an invitation to dinner from the vicar’s wife.

  At least someone’s lot had improved since his return. He had a sneaking suspicion, however, that his sister’s renewed interest in life had less to do with him than his steward, Robert Hudson. And he still wasn’t quite certain how he felt about that.

  ———

  Half an hour later, Helen burst into the library, cheeks flushed and out of breath, brandishing the folded newspaper like a weapon. “Did you leave this in my room?”

  Nathaniel fought to keep his face impassive. He glanced up at the newspaper as though to remind himself. “Ah, yes. I thought you might be interested. You were some acquainted with her, as I recall.”

  “I was acquainted with her?” His sister’s eyes pierced him, and he nearly quailed.

  He found himself murmuring the lame lines he had practiced before. “Poor creature. Can you imagine?”

  Helen narrowed her eyes, weighing his sincerity. Did she know? Did she know he knew? Or perhaps she merely studied him to see if he was more devastated by the possibility of Miss Macy’s death than he was willing to let on.

  “It is only speculation,” Helen said. “You know the Morning Post is more gossip than fact. I would not worry if I were you.”

  “I am not worried.”

  One brow rose. “Are you not?”

  He shrugged. “Are you?”

  She stared at him, and he forced himself to meet her gaze blankly.

  She asked, “Have you shown this to Lewis?”

  “No.”

  “Shall I?”

  Nathaniel shrugged. “If you like. It makes no difference to me.”

  Helen frowned, studying him for several moments longer. Finally, she turned on her heel with a huff and swept from the room.

  Apparently, acting disinterested had not earned him any points with his sister.

  ———

  Margaret and Fiona were carrying baskets of laundry down the back stairs when Helen Upchurch called from the top of the stairs, “Nora, I need to speak with you. Alone.”

  Fiona gave her a hard look that asked, “What have you done now?” She took Margaret’s basket atop her own and jerked her head to send her on her way.

  Nervously, Margaret followed Miss Upchurch upsta
irs and into her apartment. Afternoon sunlight spilled warmly through the window and onto Helen Upchurch as she seated herself at her writing desk. Standing before her, Margaret gripped her hands together. Hard.

  Helen handed her a newspaper. “My brother Nathaniel gave this to me. I thought you should see it.”

  Margaret accepted the folded paper and began reading the circled print. She felt disoriented, confused as the words swam before her, making no sense. She blinked, and read again.

  “I don’t understand,” Margaret whispered, nerves flaring.

  “Nor do I.”

  “Mr. Upchurch showed this to you?”

  Helen hesitated. “Yes.” She considered. “I cannot say he seemed terribly upset about it.”

  A flash of hurt stung Margaret. What was wrong with her? The Morning Post was speculating about her death, and she was disappointed Nathaniel Upchurch wasn’t more affected by the news?

  She skimmed the article again . . . the body not yet officially identified . . . anonymous source . . . authorities speculate . . . deceased might be . . .

  Dear God in heaven, whose body?

  Was the report mere speculation, based on the fact that she had yet to be found, alive or otherwise? Clearly, Sterling had reported her disappearance to the authorities. Had he done more than that? Had he resorted to violence? Or simply made convenient use of some other poor girl’s death to suggest, anonymously, that the body was that of his missing stepdaughter?

  Margaret! she scolded herself. You’re being ridiculous. Melodramatic. Certainly Sterling Benton would not stoop so low, would not carry out such a desperate act.

  Yet who would receive Margaret’s inheritance if Margaret was dead or officially declared so? Her mother, or her sister? Either way, the Benton men were sure to profit.

  “Thank you for showing me,” Margaret murmured.

  Helen’s eyes widened with sympathetic concern. “What will you do?”

  Margaret slowly shook her head. “I have no idea.”

  The next morning, a cloud of dread and uncertainly hovered over Margaret. She plodded through her duties, thoughts heavy with the news of her death and what, if anything, she should do about it.